


The History Books Forgot About Us

by prouveyrac



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Multi, Reincarnation, okay enjolras jehan and bahorel are the main ones in this chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1721783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouveyrac/pseuds/prouveyrac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a reason certain people gravitate to each other. It’s as if at one point in their life, they were all together. And no matter how many decades, centuries, millenniums past, when all those people are on the earth at the same time, it’s no shock that they find each other again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at tattooedjehan!!! feedback is welcomed!!! thank you for reading!!!

There’s a reason certain people gravitate to each other. It’s as if at one point in their life, they were all together. And no matter how many decades, centuries, millenniums past, when all those people are on the earth at the same time, it’s no shock that they find each other again.

_June 1st, 2:07pm, currently running down the streets of Paris_

Enjolras was late. He was _so_ late. Thirty seven minutes late to be exact. He also came to the conclusion that running down the streets of Paris in a blazer with a shirt underneath and dress pants and shoes that we’re not fit for running in the hot weather fucking sucked.

His father also sucked but he came to that conclusion when he was eleven.

But to explain why he was so late, we have to backtrack fifty-seven minutes, the time Enjolras was supposed to be getting ready to go to his parents.

He was sleeping. To be specific, he was dreaming. And usually, that’s a petty thing that no one needs to know, and that Enjolras wouldn’t need to remember.

Except this dream would not leave his mind. He could remember it vividly. Voices in the back, screaming for them to be let in or his name or someone else’s. Explosions and pieces of debris flying everywhere, canon balls passing over. Gun shots and cries of pain and blood… so much blood. Failure and death. And lastly, a lone hand slipping out of his grip.

After that was when he woke up.

He didn’t know how he felt about that dream. To be honest with himself, it made him feel a little out off. Why would he have a dream like that? He hadn’t learned about any war or battle in a while, and nothing from the previous day reminded him of the dream. He also wanted to know why he couldn’t see the faces of anyone calling his name, only his.

And of course, after he woke up, he realized he was already late and ended up rushing around his apartment. He may or may not have tripped over nearly everything in his way and he rushed around to change clothes and freshen up.

He was out the door ten minutes later already.

Enjolras finally got to the street his parents’ house was on and he slowed his pace. He really didn’t need to be rushing. Well, he did, but he also didn’t. Because yes, when he mother finally got him to agree to come home just for lunch, they agreed for one-thirty. And it was one-forty when he was leaving. But he also didn’t want to see his father, who wasn’t very fond of Enjolras because of a few reasons.

Enjolras took a deep breath, pulling his long, blond hair back into a pony-tail.

The dream still plagued his mind and he could still hear the shots and explosions. That setting seemed all too familiar and for the life of him, Enjolras couldn’t figure out why.

When he finally got to his parents’ house, he knocked on the door and immediately his mother answered. He gave her a sheepish smile.

And after a lot of apologizing from him, his mother fretting over how hot and tired he looks and how he should get more rest and _”You ran here? Julian Enjolras you should have called a cab!”_ , he was seated at the kitchen table with a glass of water shoved at him.

There was also an awkward and stern greeting from his father with comments like _“So you haven’t cut your hair…”_ , _“Punctual as always, Julian”_ , and _“So I see you finally don’t have that boy with you…”_.

One of the reasons Enjolras didn’t like seeing his father is because he was not that fine with his only child being gay.

Even though he didn’t get along with his father, he did get along with his mother very well. She’s the only reason he’s at this house currently.

And soon enough his mother was sitting at the table with him asking questions like if there was a boy or not (“No, there’s not. We broke up two weeks ago.”) and how his finals went (“They went well. I didn’t fail any of them.”) and if anything interested had happened in his life because _“We never hear from you anymore!”_ (“Nothing really, life is pretty boring right now.”).

Of course the question of why he was so late came up. He said that he had to go somewhere before hand and got out late (he’s pretty sure the last thing his mother wants to hear is that he was sleeping and dreaming of being killed in battle).

His father stayed silent for the most part, only speaking up when he was asking Enjolras if he was going to take up the family business or get a better job than a waiter or cut his hair (“No, my job is fine, and no.”).

Enjolras never knew whether he loved or hated visiting his family because on one hand, he loved his mother. On the other hand, he wasn’t so sure about his father.

About a half hour later, when they were cleaning up after eating, the plate slipped out of Enjolras’ hand and crashed loudly on the floor. Enjolras froze, the noise sounding too much like some of what he heard in the dream he had, his ears ringing. The noise was almost too loud for him.

He didn’t realize his fists were clenched and his eyes were screwed shut until he felt a hand on his shoulder and his mother saying “Julian, dear, are you alright?”

Enjolras opened his eyes, relaxing his body nodding quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he murmured, “Just, sorry about the plate. I guess it just slipped out of my hands… Where’s the dust pan? I’ll clean it up.”

"Enjolras, it’s just a plate," his mother said, smiling softly at him before turning to retrieve the dust pan. "And don’t worry, I’ll get it. You just sit and relax."

Enjolras nodded, sitting back down at the table. He slipped his phone out of his pocket. Might as well distract himself….

Tapping on the blue app, he scrolled through his dashboard aimlessly. When he checked his messages, he saw that he had a message from a url unknown to him:

**Hello. I saw your post from earlier; the one about how people should band up and fight for the rights of minorities. I agree with you completely, and I think you can actually do something with this.**

**-Combeferre**

~~

_June 1st, 7:15pm, the living room of an apartment in London_

The best way to describe Jehan is a Romantic and a romantic.

Well, the collection of skulls on one shelf in Jehan’s room and the collection of bright flowers and romantic poetry on the other probably explained that, but it should be said anyway.

They were currently sitting on the couch, their legs pulled up to their chest. They had their hair in a braid (well what used to be a braid since all the pieces were falling out).

It should also be mentioned that a thunderstorm had just started outside and the rain was already pounding down like bullets. This is mentioned because it will soon be relevant, it’s just that Jehan doesn’t know that yet.

They sat, curled up, with their phone in their hands. The thunder boomed outside and Jehan found comfort in it.

The TV was playing as background noise. Last time Jehan checked, a rerun episode of _F.R.I.E.N.D.S_ was playing.

They typed quickly on their phone, their painted nails tapping against the screen. They had just gotten muse for a new poem, and they couldn’t just let this one go.

Jehan was a poet. Or at least they considered themself one. They went to poetry readings and did videos of slam poetry that they wrote. What they wrote varied from fighting for rights of minorities to crushing the gender binary to how close a group of friends can get.

Jehan doesn’t know where the last muse came from. They have had friends before, of course, but only one or two have really stuck around, and Jehan wouldn’t consider them all a group.

Suddenly, the TV blacked out and the lights flickered before completely going out. Jehan looked up, narrowing their eyes at the darkness. All the lights in the apartment were off and the sound of the AC stopped.

"Well, fuck," Jehan mumbled. Well, the room isn’t pitch dark, so it’s not like they have to move yet. And until their phone ran out of battery, they were only pissed about the power going out because that means their apartment will soon become very hot.

Jehan sighed and went back to their poem.

Two hours and on-and-off thunderstorms later, the power was still out and now the apartment was dark.

And also Jehan’s phone only had 15% battery left and that’s what they were pissed about most.

And after searching through the apartment and stubbing their toe six times (and cursing six times), Jehan finally found their matches and candles. When they finished lighting them all around the apartment, they were just about to try to find something to eat that didn’t require electricity. What stopped him from that was the knock at the door.

Jehan opened the door, raising an eyebrow at the person before them. Before they could even get a word in, the other person was already talking.

“Hi hello I’m so sorry to bother you it’s just that in my apartment next door -I just moved here so you seemed like the one to go to, since you’re next door and all- well, in my apartment I have no matches so I was wondering if you have a couple I could take or a spare lighter I could use? I’ll definitely return it I just need to light my candles! Oh and how rude of me to not introduce myself before all of this, I’m so sorry! I’m Cosette.”

~~

_June 1st, 8:30pm, a restaurant in Dublin_

_Lawyers._

_Lawyers fucking everywhere._

_Bahorel is horrified._

See, Bahorel has a theory. He believes that if you avoid law schools and lawyers travelling in those cults of theirs, you will not catch the lawyer.

(If it’s not already known, it should be that Bahorel would never in a billion years become a lawyer.)

And of course, here Bahorel is, minding his own business in his favorite restaurant, only for a group of lawyers to walk in, talking about some case, and sit at the table next to him.

Bahorel slowly pulled his jacket tighter around him, the bright color contrasting against his dark skin, and inched his chair away slightly. If these lawyers turned and said anything to Bahorel, he would without a doubt say something back. But whenever he does that, a fight ends up starting and he really doesn’t feel like getting kicked out of his favorite restaurant.

Bahorel is a person who liked to start fights. And something he loved more than starting fights was rebelling. And something he loved more than rebelling was starting a revolution. He was never able to piece together why, he just knows that he was born an agitator.

To summarize, Bahorel would flip a desk over at school just to see what would happen (most likely a detention and possibly in-school-suspension if he did it enough).

But no, Bahorel will not cause a fight because he doesn’t want to get kicked out and also because he will not have enough money to pay for dinner _and_ all the damage.

So in the end, Bahorel left the restaurant in the same condition he entered it in… though when he did walk past the group of lawyers, he did lift the front of his jacket up over his mouth.

Bahorel strolled throughout the streets. He didn’t have many habits or routines that needed to be fulfilled, so this was something he was able to do. It gave him time to think, really.

Mostly to think about why he has all these views. His parents were farmers, it’s not like they taught him to be a person to immediately fight back (Well, actually, he was first taught to sit back and let other people do the work, but fuck that). His family wasn’t damaged by lawyers, and it’s not like he was taught that if he became a lawyer, he would be a disgrace to his family. He just… always had this logic that no one had taught him.

Though, Bahorel was able to teach his parents to respect their son. Bahorel just immediately assumed it was because that since they’re not the rich upper class, they have sense.

He doesn’t know where that logic came from either, he’s just always thought like this, but he does know that that logic is a bit reassuring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A student is surprised by someone new and stressed, a girl is done with her family and meets the neighbor who has been shortening her patience, and fate starts to play its game in another man's life.

_June 1st, 7:57pm, an apartment in Aquitaine_

 

Enjolras is surprising.

 

And familiar.

 

But mostly surprising.

 

Because Combeferre didn’t know what to expect with talking to this Enjolras, this person who he assumed to be very calm and collected and perhaps a bit uptight. But one thing he did not expect was for this Enjolras to be a huge Game of Thrones fan (especially Daenerys Targaryen, Enjolras definitely had to hammer that point out to the world) and lover of bands (Fall Out Boy) and generally someone actually pretty fun and a lot more easygoing than expected.

 

Enjolras is also a huge social activist. He wants justice for the people, especially minorities, and wants to help achieve it (Combeferre was also delighted to find out that Enjolras didn’t expect to be the face of the revolution, or in better words, the one who represents it all).

 

Combeferre likes him.

 

And the only reason Combeferre knows this is because he and Enjolras discussed the points Enjolras made for about twenty minutes before they got off topic and all of a sudden they were talking about who would be better on the Iron Throne. And from then on their conversation expanded to other things about each other and then back to social justice then to maybe a T.V show or a movie.

 

Combeferre really should be doing his course work, not sitting here trying to figure out why Enjolras is familiar (while also trying to figure out the probability of him being able to pay his rent next month but that’s a different story).

 

Enjolras does remind him of someone. The way his passion can shine through, even if it’s through a computer screen, and how his words can completely capture someone. The way he can keep a conversation going even if it’s just through typing. The part of his personality that Combeferre saw, his eloquence, his view on the world. Every part of him that Combeferre knows reminds him of someone.

 

And of course Combeferre can’t place who, so he should really drop it.

 

Combeferre sighed, running a hand through his hair. He really needs to stop procrastinating on his work and stop thinking about all of this because in the end, why should he care if this person he talked to is very familiar to him? What he really should be caring about is his course work, the rent he has to pay, balancing his jobs.

 

Of course most people would be like “Oh just ask your parents!”. But the thing is, Combeferre doesn’t do that. His moms at home have his five other siblings to take care of, so they need money for all of them and of course themselves. So, Combeferre is just going to have to possibly work some overtime to get some more money.

 

Combeferre can do this, he can so do this, it’s not like he’s a stressed out student who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing and can’t guide himself through this.

 

He groaned, dropping his head down onto his kitchen table. He stayed like that for a while, breathing deeply and trying to will himself to do the rest of his work.

 

Well of course it was futile, he ended up on his laptop, scrolling down his dashboard with a bored expression. It’s not like his work is going anywhere, he can do it later on….

 

He stopped scrolling to read over a post that caught his eye, explaining that whoever wrote it was ready to set their own work that they had to do on fire.

 

Combeferre smiled, liked it, and went on his way.

 

~~

 

_June 2nd, 9:18am, the fire escape of an apartment in New York City_

 

Sometimes Eponine forgets that she even has a family back in Spain. It’s not hard to, really. Stopping contact with them when you’re seventeen and not seeing them since burns a lot of bridges.

 

Eponine can say that she’s happy with that. Her father hated her for, as he put it, “killing his oldest son and bringing back an unneeded daughter” plus a couple of slurs here in there. And her mother cared for her younger sister more than she ever did for Eponine.

 

She doesn’t care that they’re not in her life anymore. She’s fine on her own. She’s managed for four years in a city across the ocean, thousands of miles from home. She hasn’t gone into extreme poverty, though money is tight.

 

Eponine can manage just swell without her family. Though, Eponine won’t admit to many people that there is one person she wished she could have stayed in contact with; her younger brother Gavroche. He was the only one she had really gotten along with, well, when he was around. It should be noted that Eponine and her siblings really weren’t cared about that much, so they were left to their own devices. So this would cause Gavroche to leave for a little bit and come back later.

 

So, maybe Eponine did miss Gavroche a lot, maybe even her younger sister, but she will gladly keep the bridge that connects her with her parents burned.

 

Eponine sighed, running her hand through her hair. She needs to stop thinking about the past, keeping herself in it. It’s done and over and she’s out of that life that screwed her up so much. This is New York Fucking City, isn’t this the place where people start a-new? Well, at least that is what every TV show, movie, and tourist has ever said.

 

Eponine scoffed at that, picking at the chipped red polish on her nails. It felt like her life was becoming one of those based-in-New-York-City TV shows. She had the shitty apartment, the desire to leave her life behind her. All she needed was the best friend (read: optional), the cute person next door (read: again, optional), and the ability to sing (read: not needed).

 

Her head then shot up at the loud clanging on the fire escape above her. She narrowed her eyes. She has come to the conclusion that the person who moved in right above her a couple days ago was incredibly loud. In the middle of the night their walking down her hall, up the stairs, and into their own room, drunk and noisy. In the early morning they’re pacing around their apartment. In the middle of the day when Eponine is trying to get school work done, they’re blasting music. And, of course, they clamber out onto the fire escape and-

 

A cigarette butt fell, hitting the railing and falling onto her fire escape.

 

-And throw a cigarette butt down. A couple more go, too, before they clamber back inside. Eponine pretty much had their entire schedule of noise down, considering she did most of her work from her apartment.

 

Eponine quickly grew to live with that. Though, she didn’t really appreciate having to pick up and throw out all the cigarette butts.

 

“You know,” she called up, leaning over the railing and looking at the fire escape above her, “I’m getting a bit tired of cleaning up these cigarettes of yours.”

 

A head of dark curls then appeared over the above railing. “Then I’ll get them when I finish my last one,” they said simply before bringing the cigarette in between their fingers back to their lips.

 

“Please do because I’m not your maid.” Eponine flicked her hair out of her eye. “And also, I have to be somewhere early tomorrow. Do you think you could be a little quieter tonight?”

 

“Can do,” they said, flashing a crooked grin down at her.

 

“And since we’re now talking, hi, I’m Eponine.” She gave him a slight wave, putting more of her weight on the railing (and then flinching back when it started creaking).

 

“Well, some people call me ‘ass hole’-” they smirked “But most either call be Grantaire or R.”

 

~~

 

_June 2nd, 7:48am, a lone beach of Long Island_

 

Bossuet was missing something.

 

Well, actually, he always ended up missing something. Two weeks ago it was his car keys. A week ago it was his wallet. A couple days ago it was the keys to his apartment. Of course those things would always be found, but Bossuet was always missing something. When one thing is found, another thing is missing.

 

And right now, Bossuet feels like he’s missing something. Or, well, two things actually. He couldn’t place what, but somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a section saying “something is gone, something is missing”. And of course, with Bossuet’s luck, he did not know what these somethings are.

 

He sighs, digging his feet in the sand, his skin dark against the light sand. Whatever these things are, these missing things, they’ve been bothering him for a while. They keep poking and nipping at him, haunting his mind. And frankly, he doesn’t like that. He’s a man of high spirits, he doesn’t like things bringing him down. Especially things that he doesn’t even know what they’re for.

 

And the thing is, whatever is missing makes Bossuet feel incomplete. It’s not his wallet, or his keys, not his credit card or his bag. None of his friends have suddenly left or vanished. He, for once maybe, actually has everything he needs. He couldn’t possibly think about what is incomplete with him.

 

Bossuet sat down on the sand, adjusting the beanie he had on his bald head (he did used to have hair, and a lot of it, and one day it got so annoying that he just went fuck it and shaved it all off). He watched the waves crash against the shore and the seagulls fly up above. Maybe Bossuet’s fate would be kind to him and just drop what he’s missing from the sky. If that did happen, it’s not like he would be completely dependent on whatever that thing was (unless it was something he needed to live, because then he would be dependent on it), he just wanted to know what it was so it would stop bothering him.

He stayed on the beach for a little bit longer, the morning summer sun beating on his back. Some people who liked to hit the beach early in the summer were already here, setting up for the day. Bossuet soon got up, realizing that he was running late and that if he didn’t leave now he would be late for work. He grabbed the draw string bag he brought with him and jogged off.

  
It was that day that fate decided Bossuet should jog past two people on the beach who could completely alter his world, and not even notice them.


End file.
